


Bad Religion

by cinemascope08



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-13 23:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinemascope08/pseuds/cinemascope08
Summary: It was Sherlock's intention to apologize to his friends after sticking with him through Mary's mission to Hell.  But some artwork and a confrontation prevent him from making one of the most important apologies on his list.  Events then lead him to question everything he thought shaped him.Post TLD and continues beyond TFP.





	1. Idol

Birthdays had always felt so trivial to Sherlock Holmes. Especially in the sense that time was a made up unit of measure that ended up wasting itself with every rotation of the planet.

 _You make one mistake, and suddenly no one will let you forget that the Earth revolves around the Sun. Ridiculous,_ he thought to no one in particular.

At any rate, it had been three rotations since his birthday and his recovery from his rapid sojourn into Hell was on the up and up. John Watson would be visiting his therapist again for a check-in.   He had called her after the Smith Case was wrapped and recommended Sherlock attempt to make amends and apologize to those he had recently wronged during his suicidal binge. John said this was one of the many things Sherlock could start with in his apology to his detecting partner.

Sherlock merely glared at his brother, Mycroft, by way of showing regret. There was no love lost there.

DI Lestrade got a stiff handshake and a mumbled “Sorry, Gerard.” He was kind enough to gently punch Sherlock in the shoulder and once again remind the consulting detective that his name was actually Greg.

Ms. Martha Hudson was relieved of “Not-Your-Housekeeper” duties for the foreseeable future, as Sherlock had taken to purging the flat himself by way of penance. 221B Baker Street smelled strongly of disinfectant before being replaced by the smell of various tobaccos. He was up to 248 variations. If he wasn’t allowed to forget that the big yellow glowy thing was the center of the Solar System, then he wouldn’t let anyone forget his unsurpassed experience with burning leaves to a pulp and taking painstaking efforts to categorize and catalogue their differences.

The only players remaining were Molly Hooper and Bill Wiggins. Sherlock decided to start with the latter.

He and John had tracked Wiggins to Shoreditch. Dear Billy was standing at attention in front of a brick wall. Graffiti was rampant along this particular selection. Since Sherlock’s last foray into the drug scene, Bill had taken it upon himself to remain clean a bit more and dabble a lot less. If he wanted to take the role of protégé seriously, he’d best stop the binges and focus more on “the work. 

“A’ight, Shezza?”

“Billy,” greeted Sherlock. “Busy much of late?”

 “Yessir. Been deductin’ while on my shift.” He bounced on his toes, looking pleased as punch. “They been paintin’ over the artwork ‘round here. We’ve been tryin’ ta fend ‘em off of this block.”

 “Right. Well, good work.” Sherlock shuffled his feet, anticipating the inevitable regrets he would soon put to words.   

“Sherlock,” John started. He was glancing at the brick wall, most likely bored with the delay.

“Yes, John. Billy, it has recently come to my attention –“

“Sherlock.” John spoke more urgently, his stare held.

“I’m getting there.” He continued on despite the interruption. “ – that your assistance during the past few months has been invaluable. I find that –“

“Sherlock!”

“WHAT? I’m trying to apologize! On _your_ therapist’s orders! Why must you interrupt me?”

John pointed to the wall behind Billy. “I’ve seen . . . and I’ve observed.” He crossed his arms and an amused expression blossomed on his face. For once he had the upper hand. “Does this artwork remind you of anyone?” 

Sherlock turned his attention to the bricks. He was stunned to find the life-size image of Molly Hooper gazing right back. Painted in all in black, she was clothed in her usual khakis and cardigan, sitting on a throne. In one hand, she held a syringe, needle aloft, her thumb ready to depress. The other hand held a skull. Much like the Monarchy, Molly was armed with a scepter and orb, wearing a somber expression. She looked almost demanding, her eyes piercing, an expression Sherlock had seen most recently in an ambulance. He was the direct recipient and could vouch for the accurate depiction.

The only color in the portrait was the jewels on the throne and the light that seemed to emanate from behind her perch. Billy stood beneath the bold, block letters clearly meant to accompany the piece, “Praise be to SHEEZUS.”

John’s joy doubled as he saw Sherlock’s jaw drop. “Yeah, thought so.” He gave it a bit more consideration. “Sheezus . . . Isn’t that the title of a Lily Allen album?”

Billy smirked, impressed. “Too right. You know it?”

“Yeah, Mary used to play it all the time. It grew on me after a bit.” 

“Brilliant, inn’it?” asked Billy. “I particularly like the play on words. Makes me wonner if we’d all be better off ruled by women.”

Sherlock shook his head and began to process. “Billy, your shift . . . you’re guarding this graffiti?”

“Yessir. We all take turns.” “We,” Sherlock figured, being the others in The Homeless Network.

“And why does an image of Molly Hooper need protection?”

“Well, it’s a Banksy original, inn’it? Got the inspiration one day. Gotta look after art, especially one in the name of the Almigh’y Sheezus.” 

Now it was John’s turn to be impressed. “Banksy?!” he asked, incredulous.

“Oh yeah! She and Sheezus are firm friends.” Billy studied his cuticles, dropping the names so casually as to make one believe he was used to having to explain this sort of thing all the time.

“SHE?! Banksy is a she?” John couldn’t stop grinning. Mary would be rolling in her grave.

“Well, yeah. It’s sort of the perfect cover, inn’it? She’s wants to remain anonymous – it just so happens that people assumed all great works are performed by men.”

While John was focusing on the wrong aspects of Billy’s story, Sherlock had remembered his voice, feeling the need to get the topic back on track. “Focus, won’t you, John? How does Banksy know one pathologist, Molly Hooper, well enough to paint her on the street?”

Billy’s strict posture withered slightly. “Well, it’s not really my place to say now. I won’t say anything against your missus.”

Sherlock and John, while so familiar with each other they didn’t need to speak in order to have a whole conversation, had opposite reactions to Billy’s claim. John’s face widened into one of pleasant surprise while Sherlock’s grew tight, his lips almost disappearing in a scowl. 

“My WHAT?”

Billy’s posture shrank further. “Your missus?” His confidence from earlier was suddenly lacking. “Don’t mean any disrespect, Shezza! We all love the good doctor. She been real ‘elpful to those of us who want to get sorted.”

“Banksy included in those select few needing help?” Sherlock leaned in, trying to read Billy’s many emotions as they flew across his face.

“Well, you remember how Banksy can be. She can be right charmin’ when she wants to be.”

“Sherlock, you know Banksy?” John was enthralled.

“That’s hardly the point, John.” Sherlock was now checking his phone.

 _Busy? -SH_

_Working.  
_ _Urgent? -Mx_

 Choosing not to answer, Sherlock quickly adjusted his collar, the crisp wool of the Belstaff standing against the cold. “Billy, text your network for a replacement. I’m afraid you won’t be finishing your shift.”

“No, sir?”

“No.” Sherlock turned away, commanding over his shoulder, “You’ll be coming with us.”

 

* * *

 

The sound of the bone saw drowned out the sound of the lab doors opening, their hinges left squeaky to alert the unsuspecting of any visitors. But Dr. Molly Hooper didn’t need the squeak to see the figure enter through the blood splattered across her visor.

She immediately shut off the equipment. “Meena, my love! You’re early.”

“Molly, my dear!” Meena greeted her friend using the same endearments they’d shared with each other since uni days. She stood well clear of the scene in front of her, her impeccably manicured hands folded in front of her. “If you’ve not lost your appetite by now, are we still on for tea?”

Molly removed her gear and gloves. “Absolutely. I’m half starved. Just let me scrub up, put this brain on ice, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

She didn’t reach the brain in question when she heard the telltale squeak. She turned to greet the newcomer, a smile of recognition on her face.

“Bill! This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

Wiggins sheepishly ducked his head in greeting, but wasn’t given time to answer before the doors squeaked again. The Consulting Detective entered, John Watson always on his heels.

Understanding dawned on Molly. “Ah. Say no more, Bill. I no longer need to wonder how you got past security.” She continued cleaning up. “Hi, John, how’s my Rosie doing?”

“Hullo, Molly. She’s getting bigger every day, the monkey. You’re still able to sit tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” She paused the conversation, purposely ignoring the tall man staring daggers. She would not crack first.

She only needed to hold out a few more moments while their audience waited with baited breath, all aware of the history between Detective and Pathologist. Molly was no longer easily swayed by simple flirtation. John and Bill sidled next to Meena, the trio leaning against the counter to watch the exchange.

“Molly.”

She washed her hands a second time. Protocol dictated this, but she may have extended the required time by an extra ten seconds or so. “Sherlock,” she acknowledged. “You’ve been tormenting Bill again?”

He ignored her inquiry. “I’ve a need to speak with you.”

She inhaled a hiss. “Bad timing. I’m afraid I am in fact busy. Meena and I have tea.”

Sherlock stepped forward. “I texted you.”

“I told you I was working and you didn’t answer my question.” She matched his step and clasped her hands behind her back. “This leads me to _deduce_ that whatever you need is not urgent or not work-related. I’m watching Rosie tomorrow. You can swing by then, if you want.”

He opted not to take the offer. “I understand we have a mutual acquaintance. Goes by the name of Banksy?”

“Awe, Banksy! How is she?”

Meena’s eyes widened at Molly’s casual acquaintance with fame and how it seemed a small matter to her. She mouthed the name at John, looking to verify she heard correctly. He nodded, taking out his phone and bringing up the graffiti he snapped a picture of earlier. He handed it over to Meena.

Sherlock and Molly were oblivious to this interaction. “The question, Doctor, is how you know Banksy, not how Banksy is doing.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I have a life outside Bart’s and Baker Street?”

“So what, you just find yourself in crack dens in your free time?”

Molly shrugged. “Sometimes. It depends where I’m needed. Bill’s helping me volunteer my time –“

Sherlock’s head whipped to his protégé. “Billy, you’re bringing her to the houses?”

“Don’t call him Billy!” All eyes snapped back to Molly. This was a rare outburst, her tone similar to when she slapped Sherlock silly. “His name is Bill. He’d never correct you because he admires you too much, but he goes by Bill, or Wiggins. Not Billy.” Her demeanor softened again as she shoved her hands in her lab coat pockets. “And I asked for his help.”

“Help with what?” Sherlock stepped again, beginning to loom over the pathologist.

“I told you – I . . . volunteer. I go around to the houses. I bring blankets and water. That’s how I know Banksy. She wanted to get clean. I offer resources for those who ask. Your name comes up an awful lot, _Shezza_. People want to follow your example of _getting clean._ ” She angled her head in jest, eyebrows climbing.

Sherlock’s smile was false. “Oh really? I hear your name, too, _Sheezus_.” He hissed the trailing “s.”

Molly was instantly confused. “’Sheezus?’ Like the song?” She felt a tap on her shoulder and a phone was nudged into her hand. She gawped at the photo on the screen. “That’s me!”

“What a fabulous deduction, Dr. Hooper!” Sherlock taunted.

“Banksy is THE Banksy? I thought it was just a handle!”

“Mhmm, very much like Shezza or Sheezusssss.”

John, Wiggins, and Meena began snickering along the counter.

“Meena?” Molly prodded. She knew she had just missed something. Her friend shook her head and attempted to cover her laughter by coughing. “Smooth.”

“Wiggins just made a joke,” John tried to explain.

“Care to share with the class? _Bill?_ ” Sherlock emphasized the proper name and his protégé preened slightly with the recognition.

He wanted so much to not fail Sherlock he spilled a confession. “Well, it’s just your names go so well together. One sor’a follows another.” He started singing, a familiar tune from everyone’s playground days – and also a familiar taunt. “Shezza and Sheezus, sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-“

“ALRIGHT. Everyone out of my lab!” Molly shoved Sherlock towards the doors. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment. The contact with his coat did nothing to cool the flames of her humiliation. “John, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sherlock dug in his heels fighting Molly’s pushes. “I’m not familiar with this song. Is it on the radio?”

John quickly grabbed his friend and dragged him away, trying to save the moment. “Right, Molls. Rosie will be waiting.” The hinges creaked their departure.

“Sorry, Missus,” Bill mumbled as he passed. “Don’t mean no harm, me.”

Molly clenched her fists and shook her head, her lips tight. “I know, Bill,” she sniffed. “We’ll talk later. I promise.” He left, tail between his legs, hoping for reconciliation with the good doctor down the road.

The ladies remained, alone once more.

Molly turned to her friend. “Thanks. You were a huge help back there.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

Meena had the decency to look ashamed. “Sorry, Molly. But it’s not a secret how you feel about him.”

She knew she would be forgiven. Molly was always quick to turn the other cheek. But it was always difficult when the Sherlock was involved.

“I understand if you want to reschedule our date.”

Molly rubbed her nose. “I don’t know, Meen.”

“Fancy a fag?”

“Yes. But no, thank you.”

Meena shouldered Molly, attempting a grin. “Fancy a pic of that bad ass graffiti?”

Molly barked a laugh. “Kinda. That’s art you should frame, isn't it?”

“Give me John Watson’s mobile and I’ll get you a life size copy for that baller new flat of yours.”

“Meena!” She giggled at her bestie’s audacity, but her smile was brief. “Mary was my friend.”

Meena frowned. “I know, Molls. I know.” She scuffed her feet. “I’m not playing down anyone’s grief. But . . . I think his contact would be extremely useful to have. If ever I can’t get in touch with my friend, he might know what tiny, baby clutches of which she might be in the throws.”

She played along, dragging out the suspense with contemplation. “Buy me a bacon sarnie and I promise, in exchange, to gift you Dr. Watson’s number and endless photos of the Baby Watson.”

Meena exhaled a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She was forgiven. “A small price to pay.” She began to assist Molly in removing her lab coat. “And you have to spill the dirt on Banksy! A woman?”

“And a ginger! Can you believe it? This whole time I’ve been helping an artist on the lam!”

Their banter continued through the halls of St. Barts as they walked arm in arm on the way to their date, oblivious of the fact that it was Sherlock Holmes’ original intent to visit Molly Hooper and apologize for his wrong doings.

And it was his certifiable, secret sister who ordered the apology.


	2. Thy Will Be Done

_It’s not even 1 in the afternoon and the day has already gone tits up!_

Molly checked her phone one more time, the biscuit she ordered a crumbly mess after picking out the bits of chocolate.  No new messages, no calls.  Her lunch date, Ewan, had officially ghosted.  _London traffic is bad, but it’s not so bad you can’t make it across one inner city zone in more than 30 minutes. And here I am wasting my day off and a perfectly good date outfit._

She wasn’t sure why she continued to bother.  It’s not as if any one compares to the example against whom she has held every eligible bachelor.  Every bid she’s taken to overcome her affection for one Sherlock Holmes either ended in disappointment from getting her hopes up with each new encounter or a prospect’s abysmal attempts at wooing her.

And after every disappointment, her friends would say, “It happens when you least expect it.  The second you stop looking you’ll meet someone, and they’ll sweep you off your feet!”

But how do you stop looking? If the one thing in life you think would make you fully and completely happy is someone with whom to share your happiness, how do you stop pursuing that?  Isn’t everyone deserving of someone to love and to love them in return? If it doesn’t fall into your lap, how the hell else are you supposed to find it? 

Friends.  The Internet.  Speed Dating.  Networking Events.  Hospital Fundraisers.  Even New Scotland Yard was at her beck and call for dating suspects.  It was shocking to Molly that in a such a connected world, endless dates at your fingertips, no doubt more than one possible soul mate on every app – and she was on at least five, every active attempt to make a connection burned up before impact.

Casual sex was off the table.  Being a medical professional, she was all too aware of the risks of hooking up with random gents for one night and one night only.  But there were times she desperately wanted to be one of those people who could actually hit it and quit it. How many batteries would she have saved? No need to have a post-fornication analysis.  Just get dressed and depart back to your own bed.

But the romantic in her wanted to also have a romantic _in her_. This was a very fine line to walk. And was it honestly too much to ask?

Molly had once read an article about Skin Hunger on Tumblr.  Not the most reputable source for scientific information, but fascinating regardless.  A body could literally crave the direct contact of another human being’s skin. One could go crazy without the touch of another.  She had kept herself up a few nights, solitary, desperate for a shag or a good cuddle, working herself into a frenzy imagining herself dying of loneliness.

And the world had proven itself to be particularly cruel to the single in her eyes.  More so if you were intelligent.  That meant you could see the possibilities, but didn’t want to lower your standards to compromise your own contentment.  Stupidity could only be entertaining for so long. 

Molly was comfortable with herself.  She liked her job.  She knew she was smart and her morbid sense of humor was an indicator of that intelligence. Science backed her up here.  She had just bought an absolutely lovely new flat with a fully stocked kitchen, complete with a tap over the stove to fill up your pots and pans without risking spillage all over the place.  And she had a healthy appetite to put that kitchen to plenty of use.

She wasn’t hot.  She had come to terms with this after grade school realizing that while she was not a bombshell, she was cute, and her looks would not evolve beyond that.  Plain, but cute.  And fit. She could move dead bodies with the best of them.  Without getting sick all over everything, thank you very much.

As often as it hurt her, she tried to be nice to everyone, give them the benefit of the doubt, forgive and forget.  But what did that get her?  More disappointment and people taking advantage of her good nature.  But that’s how she was raised, and she would not compromise her morals, nor judge others for their own.  She would continue to turn the other cheek.

And for once it would be nice to have some of that good nature reciprocated. She would appreciate help once and a while.  Lately, everyone had been coming to her with their problems and for favours.

_Molly_ , can you rush those toxicology screenings?  _Molly_ , can you cover my shift this Saturday night, I’ve got a hot date? Only, I know you don’t mind since you don’t have any plans anyway. _Molly_ , can you bring me some fingers? I’ve an experiment on. _Molly_ , can you meet me at this address with an ambulance in two weeks?  _Molly_ , I know you’ve just come off a night shift, but can you watch Rosie for 6 hours while I chase this lead with Sherlock?  And she’s got a doctor’s visit, can you bring her? I’ve had a bad night; can you take Rosie for a bit?

_I’ll owe you.  Thanks, I owe you one.  I owe you. I. Owe. You._  

If someone would buy her a bloody coffee once in a while that would be a good start.  And not a cheap one either.  A frothy one.  With sprinkles.  Off the secret menu that takes 2 minutes just to say its name.

Molly loved Rosie and John Watson.  She did. She would drop everything to come to their aid – and had on many occasions.  But she could not remember the last time she had a Saturday night to herself, let alone to go out and meet someone. 

That’s why it was a very big deal when, swiping left and right through the digital catalogue of eligible partners in St. Bart’s canteen, she matched with Ewan.

He was lovely.  Five foot eight, with just a bit of grey beginning at the temples.  His job was non-descript, but he enjoyed a good book and a bout at the gym.  He was a good conversationalist.

They matched and he immediately messaged her rapid-fire questions.

Favourite Colour? _Cherry Red._ Animal? _Big cats._ Food? _The entire Nando’s menu_.  It wasn’t long before Molly had answered all the basics, avoiding the boring answers she knew everyone usually gave.  And turning the tables on her new digital date, Ewan was just as descriptive.

They messaged back and forth constantly, but with natural lulls.  It was an even match between them when it came to who would break first and begin messaging again.  And he enjoyed her dark jokes and inquired as to how her day was going.  She found him incredibly refreshing.

And he was a bright spot during her days juggling the children in her life, Rosie, Sherlock, and even occasionally John, who was the pseudo-angsty teen of the group.    Not that she ever mentioned her friends or goddaughter to Ewan.  She wanted him to be separate from those pressures.  After Sherlock’s latest binge, she wanted something untarnished.

That was when Ewan wanted to meet in person.

As excited as she was at the prospect, she was all too aware of the pitfalls of modern dating.  What if she was being catfished?  Was Ewan even his real name?  What if he was 16 and she was part of some child-predator entrapment scheme?  That was a thing, wasn’t it?  Or what if he was really old?  Some septuagenarian looking for a sugar baby.

  _I_ could _be a sugar baby though.  I may have had that fantasy while I was still in uni.  And then I started working at Barts, and Sherlock starting consulting. And my fantasies drastically changed. What_ wouldn’t _I do in exchange for some frozen toes?_

Even thinking of Ewan, Sherlock still invaded her every thought.  She could keep nothing sacred.  _No wonder it didn’t work out with Tom._

And that put paid to it. Gathering up her courage, she planned a date with Ewan.

Who didn’t show.

Molly had emerged from the tube and glanced at her phone one more time.  Maybe Ewan messaged while her signal was out?

_Mmmmno._   Her lock screen remained blank.  Full bars. LTE service even.

She could no longer internalize her emotions.  “I don’t get it!  WHAT. THE.  FUUHH –“  Glancing around, she saw a group of small children next to her, the parents giving her warning looks.  “ – Phalanges.”  She smiled and waved with her personal set of ten.

The parents began to herd their children away.  _That’s right – avoid the crazy, pretty lady._

Molly locked herself back in her apartment and changed into her favorite sweater.  _Might as well go through my bills . . ._   Toby joined her, winding through her legs.

She flipped through the envelopes, stalling at one that was shaped differently from the rest.  It was just a little more square and stiffer than the others.  The words “Do Not Mail Until” were stamped on its front dated only a few days ago.

Curious, she dropped the remaining pile and ripped the envelope open, sending the contents of the envelope flying and causing Toby to flee to safer territory.  Cursing her clumsiness, she hopped after a disc. 

“What the hell is this?” Her only clue was the message written on the matte front – “Play me if alone.” 

As if sensing another presence in her flat, Molly looked around her, checking to make sure she was actually alone. “Of course, you are, you numpty.”  Seeing no other alternative to occupy her time so alluringly, she inserted the disc into her laptop and hit play.

“Hello, sweetheart!” The unmistakable lilt of Mary Watson’s voice filled the space around Molly.  The face of a woman gone from this life for six months glowed on her screen, her eyes immediately tearing up. 

Mary continued, with a sad smile, as if she knew how Molly felt at that very moment.  “I’m sure you’ve seen or heard of the discs I left the boys. Couldn’t leave out my best girl, now, could I?  Yours has special instructions, however, for delivery and for you.

“First things first – I have to tell you why I chose you as Rosie’s godmother.”  At this point, Marys’ voice cracked.  “I feel as if my time is limited.  Always have, especially after being in the business for as long as I was in the business.  That business being taking care of the bad guys for the highest bidder – usually the government.  I trust you with that information – Official Secrets Act and all, Molly Hooper.  You can ask Sherlock for the details sometime.  I don’t think John would like to talk about it as it caused us some pain when it came to light.  You may recall we had a rough patch during my pregnancy.”

Molly nodded her head in agreement, remembering too late that Mary wasn’t actually there causing Molly to tear anew.  “It was during that time I decided you would be godmother. 

“I see the way you look at him.”  Mary waggled her eye brows suggestively.  “Yeah, you know who I mean.  When I saw you two talking after he came back, I knew your engagement to Tom wouldn’t last.  And while I’m sorry about that, I so admire your strength to not put someone through the pain of not loving them fully.  I see your devotion to the Baker Street Boys, after all of their messes and their bullheadedness, and I knew that should I not make it,” Molly’s tears were full on now, “I knew you will be there to be a rock for Rosie. 

“You are such a wonderful person, Molly.  Please don’t ever stop doing what you do.  Your ability to love unconditionally is unparalleled and so rare.  I regret not being able to repay the kindness you have doled out to me and the boys since the beginning.”

“Which is why I feel bad about what I’m going to ask of you next.”  Mary paused, her eyes looking everywhere except on the lens in front of her. “I know you to be the best secret keeper around.  Have it on good authority, in fact, from no less than two Holmes men.  And I have to ask you to keep one more secret.”

Mary looked down camera. “I am not dead.”

“What?!”  Molly screamed.  Toby was finding his way back to her but immediately scampered from the room at her outburst.

“I know!  You must think me so awful.”  At this point Mary was losing her composure, her voice getting thicker.  “But this was an opportunity that could not be missed.

“I promise to explain fully next time I see you.  We had one chance to get this right and I will be coming home.  But I need you to hang in there just a bit more and be the rock you are.  Most of all for Rosie.  I can handle John when I come back.  And I’m pretty sure you can handle Sherlock.”  Mary attempted a wink, but Molly was not having it.  Mary winced on the screen.  “Oh, I wish I could take that back.  So not the right tone to strike right now.

“I leave you, Molly Hooper, keeper of secrets and baby Rosies.  Until next I see you.  It won’t be all that long, I hope. Destroy this disc if you think of it, ok?  You’re too close to too many smart people.  Tell Rosie I love her and remember why I chose you. You’re strong and loved.  More than you know.”  Mary smiled again, but a true smile, and the screen went dark.

Molly was alone once more. Her eyes felt heavy and her breathing was ragged.  _This was not the day I set out to have when I left the house this morning._   The cacophony of emotions she was experiencing was too loud in the silence of her living room.

Another secret. Why was she the only one who could keep a secret? “Isn’t there anybody else?” she queried the empty room.

She was feeling something else as well.  There was a niggling feeling in the very back of her mind that she couldn’t yet name. Or she didn’t want to name.  “Bloody sentiment.  Maybe that brilliant git is on to something after all.”

She stood from her spot in front of her laptop once more addressing no one in particular.  “Tea.  I need tea.” The ultimate cure-all had yet to fail her.  Marching into the kitchen, she flicked on the kettle and stood by the sink.  She opened the window, breathing in the cold air, trying to right herself.

She was debating adding lemon to her brew, when her phone rang. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block got me real bad. You should see the ideas I have for later in the story. But I got caught out in the rain last week and my problem corrected itself. More to come soon I hope.
> 
> Thanks for visiting! XOXOX


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